


Out Of The Blue

by EngravedInTheStars



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Todoroki Enji | Endeavor's Bad Parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 10:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18030446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EngravedInTheStars/pseuds/EngravedInTheStars
Summary: Shoto would have happily continued to ignore his father’s existence as he’s been doing for a total of three and a half years, but Enji throws a wrench those plans when he forces Shoto back to the Endeavor Gym for one specific purpose—to be trained to take over the Gym. Never mind that he’s never wanted that, nor does he have any fire Pokémon in his arsenal like Enji wishes. What he wants is to see the world with friends and see what it has to offer. Except . . . What he’s wanted has never mattered before.Or, that’s what he thinks, until one Midoriya Izuku, with some helpful Pokémon and friends of his own, decides to show Shoto that what he wants is worth chasing after.





	Out Of The Blue

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my piece for the Boku No Pokemon Hero Big Bang!  
> My artist is Cricket, who has done an absolutely bombing piece for my fic and here is the link: https://cricketmilk.tumblr.com/post/183291164969/hes-here I love, love, love it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shoto would have happily continued to ignore his father’s existence as he’s been doing for a total of three and a half years, but Enji throws a wrench those plans when he forces Shoto back to the Endeavor Gym for one specific purpose—to be trained to take over the Gym. Never mind that he’s never wanted that, nor does he have any fire Pokémon in his arsenal. What he wants is to see the world with friends and see what it has to offer. Except . . . What he’s wanted has never mattered before.
> 
> Or, that’s what he thinks, until one Midoriya Izuku, with some helpful Pokémon and friends of his own, decides to show Shoto that what he wants is worth chasing after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is my piece for the Boku No Pokemon Hero Big Bang; I had fun doing so.   
> My artist is Cricket, who has done an absolutely bombing piece for my fic and I thank you greatly!

Something starts to wake him—a voice?—but it's too quiet, not insistent enough, so his sleep-addled brain refuses to focus on it. It's too early. Shoto knows it is because his alarm hasn't had the chance to ping obnoxiously yet (he really should change it). Instead of clawing his way to the surface, choosing to instead linger on the threshold of consciousness, he rolls over, digs fingers and burrows his face into cold fur. Seeing his Quirk is what it is, the cold doesn't have any effect, not when his left is warming to comforting levels that start to lull him back under.

“Shoto,” someone whispers. It’s because he’s just enough of the edge of sleep that he registers the voice, but only vaguely. He can recall that he's heard a voice like that for most of his childhood, and that's what has his eyes fluttering open, knowing subconsciously a whisper like that must mean something. Something important. Too bad his eyes stubbornly shut on him again.

He grunts and can only hope it's appropriately inquisitive since his eyes aren’t obeying him and his ears are only just.

“Shoto, wake up,” she whispers again. It's only been four years since getting up this early was needed and it shouldn’t be so hard to do it again. Yet, it is. He tries, again, to get his eyes to open and focus. They do. Open, that is. They don't focus and he's left trying to piece together who it is standing over him. Not anyone threatening, surely. His friends aren't posturing at his sides or making noise indicating a threat.

There's a fretful noise above him and— _Pwaff!_ A pillow slams into his face. Sitting bolt upright, Shoto tries to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a garbled, raspy wheeze. At least his eyes are focusing now. Before all of his bearings right themselves, there are hands on his shoulders in a tight, firm grip, further urging his mind to work towards something resembling proper functionality.

“I'm sorry to have woken you,” Momo (it’s Momo, not his mother) says. “But you need to get up and go if you wish to avoid an early confrontation with your father,”

He goes from being mostly asleep to wide awake and gobsmacked in point five seconds, giving himself enough mental whiplash in the process that his world tilts on an axis. “What?” he croaks, sure he's misheard. What could _he_ want this early? No, he knows the answer to that, it's just that he doesn't want to believe it.

“He's on his way; I don't know when he left. I checked the messages a little later than usual—” cutting herself off, she wrings her hands together. “I let my guard down because he's been quiet for so long. I thought he'd finally left you alone for good.” She reaches for him again, pulling on his shoulders like she might shake him. Full of regret, her eyes glisten with tears. “I don't know when he'll arrive, so you must be quick.”

He nods so much he figures he must resemble a flicked bobblehead. “Don't worry, I'm going now,” he assures her. He isn't sure what else to say or do to assuage her guilt. There might not be much else he can do. Giving her hand a squeeze, he adds, “Thank you.”

She's too choked up to offer a proper response except a nod. Then she leaves. She'll keep an eye out for him, he knows.

Untangling from the sheets, he trips over Soba in his haste to get going. Soba gives him a mildly unimpressed look and raises his chin imperiously as if to say, “Excuse you.” It isn't hard for a Weavile to look regal and imperious, but Shoto doesn't have the energy to try and be affronted by the gesture. Instead, Shoto ignores him in favor of getting ready. Frost rises from his futon, steps over Soba (who hitches a ride on one of nine tails) daintily, and decides to follow so closely that the chill radiating from her nips at his bare heels. She stays just outside the door as he uses the bathroom and brushes his teeth only to resume following as he rushes around and yanks on fresh clothes with an aggression such menial tasks don't require. He caps off manic movements by rapidly smoothing down outrageous bedhead in an attempt to tame flyaways. It only half works. Snatching up his house keys, wallet, and phone, he pauses when he comes to the Poké Balls.

He holds them out in silent invitation; he won't force them inside, ever.

 By this point Soba has already scaled Frost and now sits on her back; he is partially hidden by her blue-white, wispy mane, but his dark blue body and red crown makes for a startling contrast. He whacks Shoto's hip with the back of his claws and then puts his back to him to get his point across. Frost is at least nicer in that she just turns her head and sniffs delicately in disdain, nose up in the air. This is something he's used to deciphering, something that needed to be learned when they started refusing to talk and even now, so far from Enji's house, they still won't. It's hard sometimes to guess certain things with no tone or inflection to go off of, but whenever he's tried to coax them to talk they always stop at the last second, like they think they'll still get reprimanded for making the tiniest amount of noise. He wishes they weren't so afraid, but understands because he used to be just as afraid. Most of all, though, he misses their voices. It's his fault they're silent, his fault they won't talk to him or Momo or anyone else really. Shoto shouldn't have let things go as far as they did with Frost (or in general), should have stood up for her sooner when all she's done is protect him. His friends have endured so much for his sake alone.

 _Tools meant to be used at your disposal should be seen and not heard. They are not your friends,_ Enji's words ring in his head, as thick and poisonous as a noxious cloud. It makes his hands curl into fists and the feel of metal biting into skin is enough to keep those words from settling where they don't belong.

Burning those words in his mind's eye and ignoring the ache in his chest, Shoto stuffs everything into his pockets and then gives his friends gentle pats on the head.

As he's walking, Shoto reminds himself that the special mentality Enji has is not a popular view worldwide. It's generally frowned upon. Pokémon are not tools of _any_ kind and should not be treated as such. If they want to fight, it should be their choice. Shoto's mother had the mentality that a Pokémon should be treated like an old friend, kindly and with open arms. It was that attitude towards Pokémon that led her Abomasnow to protect her from Enji and his hoard whenever she could, no matter the consequences.

Shoto distantly wonders if he'll ever see his mother again. Maybe he should go find her, make an adventure of it? It would be a lot better if he could bring all of his friends, so maybe he should see if Momo would want to come? There's also Jirou, but she may not want to leave. It's their hometown, for all of them, and yet he may be the only one who wants to permanently leave it all behind. He'll just have to casually bring it up and see how they feel about it.

Too busy thinking about how he can wiggle the suggestion into a conversation winds up making him deaf to the sounds around him. In fact, had Frost not taken hold of his shirt between her teeth, he would have eventually walked into plain view. Soba chooses then to scale Shoto and perch on his back like a living backpack. Good thing is that he's a relatively small Weavile. Bad thing is that Shoto is getting jabbed by the crown.

“Where is Shoto?” the old man's voice reaches his ears like a low rumble. Disgust coils low in his stomach.

  “H-he's, um, he's not here?” Momo's voice is high and reedy, making her statement sound more like a question.

Shoto already knows how Enji must look to his longtime friend/roommate, already knows the exact stance he must be taking as it's always been the same: Arms crossed over his chest, back ramrod straight, chin tipped up just enough that he'll be forced to look down on anyone shorter than him. The look on his face is typically one of disdain and he holds himself like a king, like royalty, like he's special. Trying to intimidate everyone into giving him the respect he thinks he deserves (big surprise that he doesn’t). Sure, he's got a Quirk and it's powerful, but he isn't the only one with one. He isn't the only one who can use their Quirk whenever and however they please, bending it to their will. It doesn't make him special. Doesn't make him on par with true royalty. All it does is prove how much of a condescending bastard he is when that power is flaunted.

Whatever Enji says in response, Shoto doesn't listen because he hears a crackling that he is all too accustomed to: Fire. Is he flaunting his Quirk again? Using it to cover his face? Is he trying to intimidate Momo? Gritting his teeth and steeling his nerves, Shoto continues down the hall purposefully without hesitation. Just because he doesn't want to deal with the old bastard doesn't mean it's okay for him to harass and frighten Momo. As much as he doesn't want to be in the same vicinity as him, he wants Momo to bear the brunt of his frustration even less. He'll put up with it if it means Momo won't be frightened. He won't let his friends cower in fear of that man anymore.

Six steps away from rounding the corner, to almost be in view, and Shoto is stopped again. Not by his friends at his back. It's _Hoopa_ of all things that comes barreling around the corner out of nowhere and propels themself straight into Shoto's face at full speed. Shoto startles, arms half-raised and eyes wide as he resists the urge the backpedal—he'll trip over Frost and land flat on his backside if he does. As it is, he's dislodged Soba a little who glares over his shoulder. Who knew having a Pokémon slam point-blank into one's face early in the morning was so much fun? Hoopa shoves their hands against Shoto's mouth and it's only by a small amount that he refrains from giving a loud, muffled swear.

It's too early for this. He wonders if he could've gotten away with pretending to be sick and staying in bed.

Hoopa jerks back and points back at Shoto's bedroom. He shakes his head and tries to sidestep the hovering Pokémon. It doesn't work. Ducking under Hoopa yields better results, much to their chagrin.

It's not like he gets far. Maybe one measly step is all he gets before the next thing to cross his line of sight is one of Hoopa's enlarged rings as it comes down from above him. It's cold enough in this pocket of space that Shoto instinctively heats up his left side to combat it. The moment all of him is trapped, Shoto feels its effects. A band wrapped tight around his chest makes him feel like he can’t properly pull oxygen into his lungs, his sense of balance is thrown off so severely that nausea sweeps over him  bad enough his eyes screw shut on their own in some attempt to fool his brain into believing all is fine. It feels like he's being pulled in every direction available. He slaps his hands over his mouth to keep from spewing.

What an unfortunate feeling as a whole.

The portal spits him and Soba out on his futon with a soft, muted thump that could reasonably pass as a trick of the mind. Frost follows soon after and lands draped over his lower body. Soba is splayed out on his head. He finds himself grateful that the vertigo is lessening because when he opens his eyes, the world is no longer spinning and the nausea is dialing back several notches. The downside? He suddenly feels too heavy, like there's a truck parked on top of him.

Shoto still wants to vomit.

It's _still_ too damn early.

When he manages to dislodge his friends and stand, he prides himself, just a little, on not falling over immediately. Frost wobbles when she stands, icy eyes unfocused and wandering around inanely. Soba is attempting to keep her upright despite the fact that not only is _he_ swaying, but he's not nearly strong enough to keep a Ninetails upright properly. Shoto gives him an A for effort.

Hoopa appears in his doorway, shaking their head.

Narrowing his eyes, he hisses as loudly as he dares, “ _What are you doing?_ ”

Hoopa doesn't say anything, just shakes a ring at him threateningly. It enlarges again, this time just inside his doorway; it's positioned low enough that Shoto won't be able to squeeze beneath it and high enough that if he tries to shimmy up, all Hoopa has to do is give him a shove and he'll wind back up in that dreadful pocket.

Hoopa is smirking at him. A Pokémon should not look that smug or pleased with itself. Hoopa sits—hovers?—atop the ring, looking as though they’ve won something.

Throwing up his hands in exasperation, he grumbles under his breath, “Go back to your shrine.” He doesn't think it was that loud, but the look he gets suggests it was heard anyway. Hoopa isn't moving.

Staying here means that Enji is more likely to find him if he feels so inclined to bully his way inside—Momo can only do so much—and if he's caught loitering around when he's supposed to not be here . . . Momo has already set herself up to be the main cause for his ire by lying to his face and he doesn't want Momo to be caught in a lie, and that means he has to find a way out. So, what can he do when Hoopa won't let him go out? How can he leave?

Briefly, he contemplates asking Hoopa to teleport Enji to a different part of town—maybe a lake or gross pond so he can feel like a soggy, shredded paper towel—but he can't do that. It's a satisfying image to be sure, but Hoopa has mostly stayed in the shadows under Momo's protection and they would both prefer to keep it that way. Hoopa doesn't like venturing far from their shrine or this house unless it's at night and tagging along with Momo. He can't bear the thought of what Enji might do if he figured out what it was Hoopa could do. The lengths to which he would go to control that power.

He turns to check on his friends and gives Soba a flat look when he catches the Weavile making rude gestures at Hoopa while Frost looks like she's debating on just lying down. They seem fine now. Hoopa must do something in return because Soba puffs, shakes his claws and then postures. Shoto rolls his eyes and catches sight of his window from the corner of his eye.

_Should he . . . ?_

Soba mimics pushing up sleeves and starts to tromp over to Hoopa, so on his way to the window, Shoto pulls on Soba's crown. Soba pouts at him and clings to his pant leg like he's a Weedle or a child, causing Shoto to walk with a limp. The last thing he needs is to hunt for his lost friend if he agitates and antagonizes Hoopa too much—not like it would be the first time. Slowly, carefully, Shoto eases the window up when it doesn't seem like Hoopa is going to stop him. It seems to be all clear when Shoto sticks his head out the window to check; a gentle breeze caresses his face and drifts into his room lazily, lifting a few strands of hair. Dew clings to the foliage Shoto can see, glistening when the early morning rays of the sun hits them. It'll have to do as an escape route for the time being. A problem is brought to his attention when he swings a leg over to climb out: He has no shoes on. There are none in his room; they're all by the front door, which he can't go to. He'll just have to be mindful of where he steps until he can get to a store for a new pair of shoes. Maybe he'll keep that set hidden in his room in case something like this happens again.

Frost squeezes her way through, slinking out like a sulking fox; Soba scales his leg until he’s on the windowsill and promptly jumps onto Frost’s back like she’s a Ponyta. They both turn to look at him expectantly. After waving to Hoopa, Shoto swings his legs over and stretches out until his feet are on the ground, closing the window behind him.

Making a beeline for the iron fence surrounding their property, Shoto ducks behind a few bushes and holds his breath. Soba peers around the corner, gives him a claw up, and then squeezes through the bars of the fence with a little difficulty. Neither Shoto or Frost can squeeze through the bars; he’ll have to climb up and Frost will have to take a ride in her Poké Ball. She must be aware of this, because when Shoto reaches into his pocket, she moves closer and leans heavily on his side. She doesn’t put up a fight or give him a kicked Pokémon look, she simply touches her nose to the button and disappears in a slim ray of red. With Soba keeping watch, Shoto uses the ornate swirls in the fence to haul himself up and over without a problem. The fence doesn’t creak from his pulling or his weight, and the only noise is a soft grunt when a dull point at the top of the fence catches him in the ribs. It’s all clear still when his feet hit the ground again, so he takes off at a steady pace while Soba follows on all fours.

Hopefully his neighbors will forgive him if they catch him running through their backyards and scaling fences. Maybe he’ll be lucky enough they’ll have just woken up if they happen to see him.

Fifteen minutes later he has new shoes on, Frost has been long since freed, and he’s wandering around with no destination in mind. The few people he sees are sparse and few between—he sees a few others with Pokémon flouncing around them. There’s a Beedrill Shoto has to give a wide berth to. They’re mean when mad, persistent even, so instead of so much as breathing in its general direction, he’d rather avoid it altogether and that makes it peaceful. There are shopkeepers moving around in their stores from last minute details that need to be seen to before opening up for the day. It’s still a little breezy without being a nuisance or annoyance and the sky is dusted and streaked rosy, broken apart only by pastel pumpkin shades. The only clouds around are the white puffy ones drifting lazily off in the distance.

It’s so peaceful that Shoto can no longer be mad about being up.

He shuts off his alarm, due to go off in half an hour, and glances at store fronts, seeing if there’s anything that catches his attention. There’s a few antique-looking things that look like they need to be refurbished, but otherwise there’s nothing to note.

Closer to the heart of town he’s jerked to a stop, giving a small _oof!_ of surprise. Frost has the hem of his shirt caught between her teeth again, whining softly. Soba rubs at his stomach pointedly. Oh, right.

The nearest food store for Pokémon is only another five minutes away if he remembers right and, luckily, ought to be open at this time and there’s also a place next to it where Shoto can get something for himself. He’s not exactly starving, but he feels like it’ll soon grow to that when there’s a hollow feel there that will become a near impossible to ignore gnawing sensation.

Getting food for Frost and Soba is a task and a half when he’s got to herd them away from numerous shelves because Frost keeps snuffling at anything she finds interesting (those cute, pleading eyes are not working, they’re _not_ ) and Soba is winding around containers and jostling them, like shifting them one centimeter in any direction is going to make something magically pop up. Unsurprisingly, it’s Frost’s audible snuffling at the low-hanging racks at check-out that draws the cashier’s attention, and has her leaning over to have a look at her. She must be new. Shoto doesn’t remember seeing anyone like her before, and he would definitely remember seeing a girl with pink skin and hair, yellow horns, and black scleras with yellow irises. Her name tag helpfully informs him her name is Ashido.

“Ooh! How pretty you are!” Ashido gushes, hands to her cheeks. She doesn’t seem to register that he’s ready to check out.

Frost puts one paw in front of the other as she lifts her head and turns it. Her nine, cloud-esque tails quiver and her mane stirs on its own. Look at her posing.

Ashido continues crooning, “Look at those big, wide baby blues practically sparkling! And that luscious, shining coat!”

Soba, not one to be left out, hops off of Shoto’s arm to Frost’s back and puts himself directly into Ashido’s line of sight, using Frost’s head for leverage. Frost’s forehead wrinkles and scrunches down to almost cover her eyes with the weight Soba is applying to it.

Ashido turns her bright eyes to Soba and lights up even more, leaning forward more on her hands even as they drum against the countertop. She’s making kissy noises. “Look at you, there. A handsome Weavile! That bright collar of yours, and such sharp claws. You look just as cute as the one you’re sitting on!” She reaches out a hand only to stop just shy of touching Soba’s head to look at Shoto, waiting for a nod of assent; he grants it with a shrug and then she’s stroking his head with a happy little squeal. Frost makes her demand for attention known by getting up on her hind paws and snuffling at Ashido’s face up close and personal, causing Soba to tumble down her back like a blue-red tumbleweed and falling to the ground on his back, legs up in the air.

He’s fine, if the pout and following glare he sends Frost is anything to go by.

He kind of wants to pull Frost away but he can’t for two reasons: Ashido is now scratching her neck, aglow with the chance to give attention and Frost is lapping it up. Soba tries to scramble back up Frost so he’s in the limelight again.

They get lots of love, he swears, they’re just incorrigible.

“You’re both terrible,” Shoto says, fondness bleeding through his tone with ease. It comes naturally when Enji isn’t around.

“Nonsense,” Ashido informs him. “They’re both wonderful. Oh! Can I give them a couple treats?”

“As long as they’re good for them to eat,” slips out before he can stop it. It’s a bit of a ridiculous statement considering the place he’s at and what he’s here for.

“Of course,” she says, suddenly very serious. “I would never give a Pokémon anything bad. I have this friend who works with Pokémon; he makes the treats for the store,” she continues talking as she ducks down and rummages around in compartments below the register, “I haven’t gotten around to putting them out yet and so far they’ve been very well received by our lovely Pokémon friends,”

Shoto glances around at what parts of the store he can see and asks, “Do you have any?”

She hums. “I’m afraid not! I’ve always loved them—Aha!” The sudden shout has Shoto jumping, heart skipping a couple beats. _What are you afraid of? It’s not him,_ Shoto reminds himself. Ashido jumps up from behind the counter, items in hand. She comes around the corner and holds one out to Frost. It’s in the shape of a . . . Circle? No, wait, that’s a heart. It’s a heart. “I haven’t met one that I think is the right fit for me.”

And Shoto . . . Shoto can relate to that, just a little. When he was younger, after Enji decided Soba wouldn’t be a successful fighting type, he had tried to force fire-types on him. All his life he had accepted that fire-types were not to be trusted. Don’t get him wrong, there’s nothing wrong with the type itself and he’s not harboring hatred for them, but he can’t help but be at least a little wary. Reminding himself that not all fire-types are the same doesn’t do anything positive.

It throws him back to a past he would rather not relive, starts with something that tickles the back of his throat and makes him want to gag on the smoke that’s tickling the back of his throat, steadily going from light to heavy and acrid as it fills up his lungs. There’s no escape and it’s _suffocating. He’s suffocating and he can’t breathe anymore and it hurts._ Bright spots dance in his vision like starbursts and it makes him half-blind as he tries to see, and his left side _aches_ and _pulses_ with a power he doesn’t want to set free even as he brings up his mother’s words, chanted like a broken mantra in his head: “ _You don’t have to be a prisoner of your blood. You can be who you want._ ” But it’s so hard to remember when all he can hear are that bastard’s shouts telling him he needs to be stronger, needs to eventually specialize in both fire- and ice-types if he wants to beat Yagi Toshinori, knocking him off a pedestal so high that Shoto wouldn’t be able to reach the very edge even if he climbed one of the world’s tallest trees. An oppressive heat washes against bruises that sting and smart whenever skin flexes. _How can you expect to beat anyone if you stay weak, Shoto. The weak do not belong in this world, just like your mother_ —

A surreptitious weight on his left side and a nudge to his hip has him sucking in a sharp breath he instinctively quiets before he can remind himself it isn’t necessary. It helps bring him back around. Nausea-inducing smoke leaves his lungs and the bright spots settle before fading to the colors of the shop and the spotty aches and pains leave him and the only voice he hears now is Ashido as she prattles on to his friends, still complimenting them. Frost looks between Shoto and the cheerful cashier who’s heedless of the battle going on in Shoto’s head and the way he’s trying to force the clamp around his chest away. Soba is watching him with concern. Apparently he decides to take a more direct approach than Frost’s tails pushing against him, because he leaps at Shoto’s shoulder and and climbs up to sit on his shoulders and hug his head. There’s a soft rumbling against his head that’s not quite a growl, not quite a whine.

Soba reaches out with one claw to take the offered treat and eats it in approximately two whole messy bites, getting crumbs in Shoto’s hair that he’ll have to shake out later. Shoto has to wonder whether or not he actually tasted it at all. Frost takes hers, lays down on the ground, places the treat between her paws, and breaks off chunks of it. It must be softer than she anticipated because she looks down at the treat like it holds all the answers in the world and tilts her head and makes a confused little noise. When she’s done, she twines herself around his legs even though she’s too big for that now and coils her tails around his waist and legs, cold seeping through the fabric of his pants.

Clearing his throat and hoping his voice doesn’t crack, he tells Ashido, “Perhaps one will find you when you least expect it, Ashido. May you be as lucky as I am.” Setting down the bowl and food he grabbed, Shoto finally frees up his hands.

She seems too stunned to react to the second statement because the first leaves her mouth flopped open and only remembers she’s wearing a name tag when Soba points at her chest. Ashido blinks at the realization and laughs good-naturedly even as her cheeks darken to cherry red. After handing over the remaining treats—this time it’s Frost who eats hers in two bites and Soba nibbles at his own, crunching in his ear—she rings him up, places all of his things in a bag, and, per cashier ritual, asks, “Can I get you anything else?”

“More treats,” is his automatic answer.

She gives him one of the widest and brightest grins Shoto has ever seen as she drops to get more, and keeps talking. She might be the chattiest person he’s ever met. “Oh! I’m not in any hurry. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t wait but one will find me when we’re both ready for that step. It’s kind of a big step—” her words peter out when she messes with something, loud crinkling forcing her to pause. Once she’s got her prize on the counter (a clear plastic bag full of treats), Ashido seals it tightly with a near perfect bow and continues like she hadn’t just taken a break for half a minute. “—so you really have to be ready for it! I think I’m almost there.” She finishes ringing him up and his total is displayed. Not too bad. Certainly less than he was expecting.

“I see,” he says. He adds, after a brief debate, “You can do it.”

If it’s possible, her grin only brightens as she takes his exact change and hands him the receipt. “Thanks!”

“Of course,” he says, giving a small smile of his own. “Have a nice day, Ashido.”

“Come again!” She says cheerily.

It takes another ten minutes or so to get his own food—Soba and Frost stay outside and Shoto takes the bag with him because otherwise Soba will make a mess if left unsupervised and he’ll find Frost’s head in the bag because Soba will encourage it—before they’re finally ready to find a nice, peaceful place to lounge around at for an indeterminate amount of hours to come.

A place actually comes to mind moments later, so he looks down at his friends. “Should we go to the hill and people watch for a while?”

Frost trills at him and trots off, heading through the heart of town. Soba taps his wrist and waves. They don’t seem to mind waiting a bit longer.

 _Guess that answers that,_ he thinks, lips twitching. It only takes a few wide steps to catch up. He’s looking straight ahead, but a flash of cream and red flicker into his peripherals, and when he happens to look Shoto does a double-take at what he sees, coming to an abrupt halt.

“This is an odd development,” he says under his breath, blinking rapidly to make the sight go away, but, no, he’s really not just seeing things.

Crossing the street diagonally across from them is a Lopunny accompanying a Mimikyu. It’s odd enough to see a Mimikyu around other Pokémon, and one that doesn’t seem to have a problem with it at that. What’s truly odd is the fact that the Mimikyu isn’t _dressed_ like one. There is no ragged, patchy Pikachu costume hanging over it. Instead, it’s wearing a Spinda costume with colors the perfect match of a real one. It’s too perfect to have been done by a Pokémon. To top off the look, it’s wearing an ugly scarf that’s wound around its neck, making it bob. It’s an ugly pinstripe yellow and black one. The colors themselves aren’t ugly, but it’s the vibrant yellow that throws off the entire look. Lopunny is wearing a matching one, which he only notices when Mimikyu swings one of about eight lollipops up at its companion and the Lopunny reaches out for it.

The longer he stares, the more he realizes he’s seen those colors before. What’s worse is that he’s seen these Pokémon before, too, and he can’t even place from where.

Soba smacks his forearm to get his attention. When he has it, he tries to smile with a maw that isn’t capable of a grin so wide and lips that won’t stretch to accommodate it. He strikes a pose that is vaguely familiar, back when he paid closer attention to the news, Trainers and Champions on the rise. Below him, Frost puffs out her chest and manipulates her mane into two sharp points behind her ears. It takes almost a minute before Shoto swears there’s an audible _ding!_ in his mind and swings his gaze back to the pair who are nearly at the next crosswalk. There is only one person who wears colors that ugly and it is Yagi Toshinori, League Champion, who also styles his hair into two sharp points like a Lopunny’s ears and smooths the rest of it back when he has interviews. While those colors are practically a trademark look to the Champion, Shoto cannot remember ever having seen him with a Mimikyu or a Lopunny because Yagi Toshinori doesn’t have cutesy friends. He has Pokémon that can snap Shoto in half with two fingers or style him into a painful pretzel on the floor. It’s frustrating, because Shoto is awake enough for his brain to supply him with the name, with a face even, but when he tries to hunt for that information it lingers on the outskirts of his mind, just out of reach. Every time he gets the slightest bit closer to it it dissipates and leaves him coming up empty. It certainly doesn’t help that Shoto has stopped tracking the man’s progress for the past three years or so because there was no reason to after he moved out of Enji’s house. There is no desire to climb above the Champion.

Something else jars his memory when the duo pause and turn to look at them. There isn’t really anything to discern from the Mimikyu on account of the fact Shoto can’t exactly see its face. It’s the look on the Lopunny’s face; it’s so . . . soft and affectionate. Tender. Kind. Attentive. Such a look feels almost physical to the point that something in Shoto’s chest twists and something churns his stomach. It makes him feel like he’s an open book and all negative emotions that he’s ever felt (particularly throughout his childhood and against his father) are pulled to the surface, but it doesn’t hurt. It feels like it’s meant to be soothed, like a balm against wounds that still pain him if dwelled on for too long. When his eyes close he doesn’t see silver and white, he sees . . . black? Blue? Green? It’s too fast for him to pin down a solid color yet enough for him to be sure it isn’t his mind giving false information. He’s closer to who it is, the name right on the tip of his tongue to where he can nearly taste it. A memory reluctantly trying to surface, like it’s being pulled through several layers of syrup on a thin piece of thread.

And then it’s just gone when Lopunny and Mimikyu keep going and round the corner. Whatever Shoto was on the verge of rediscovering flows over and through him like water over rocks. Shoto scowls, resisting the urge to hiss, hands tightening on his bags. He was so close. _So close._ Since he isn’t about to chase after Pokémon just to get answers he decides the best course of action is to keep thinking on it. But not too hard lest he expel the memory completely. He’ll let it simply float on the edges of his mind until it eventually comes to him.

Sighing, he turns and keeps going.

Roughly thirty minutes later—because he made a brief pit-stop it took a little longer than it should have—before he veers to the right the moment the ground goes from concrete to gravel, heading for the treeline a short distance away. From here, on this little slight hill, he can see both the winding road leading in to/out of town and a portion of the town itself. Not too far that he can’t see people, but far enough that he won’t get called out for sitting here a while. It’s tucked into the surrounding trees and that means shade for when the morning moves on and gives way to a more heated evening.

Setting down all the bags, leaving the most recent one in his lap, Shoto places one bowl on either side of him, tears open the Pokémon food and fills up the bowls. Whatever they don’t eat, he can thankfully save easily with the resealable bag. Frost nudges her head against his forearm when he moves the bowl closer and digs into her food the moment his hands are pulled back. Soba decides his bowl isn’t in a good spot, drags it so it’s about a foot in front of Shoto and slightly off to the right, and then he plops down and eats large handfuls, getting crumbs everywhere. Shoto lays out his own food: rice and miso soup. Using the heat from his left hand chases any chill away from his food.

“Itadakimasu,” Shoto murmurs, tucking into his food heartily.

As he and his friends eat, they watch the people coming and going. Those that go into town are usually on foot, and some have one Pokémon trailing in their wake. His eyes eventually land on a blond walking alongside a guy with black hair, and a Typhlosion lumbering behind them occasionally blowing smoke and embers at the blond. A redhead, hair spiked to sharp points, jogs to meet them and it isn’t long before he’s goaded into a fight instigated by the blond. It turns into Typhlosion against Magmar. A Primeape releases itself from one of the Poké Balls at the redhead’s belt and hops around him in that angry way of theirs, swinging their fists up and down. The Primeape doesn’t look like it belongs with Red; it looks like it ought to tagging along with the blond, who he can tell from this distance is nothing but anger personified. He’s yelling, but Shoto can’t make out the words as they’re carried off by the wind. Whatever it is doesn’t deter Red, who just laughs merrily and cheers on Magmar, jumping into the air and pumping fists to the sky while his Primeape joins him.

Frost and Soba are also watching the fight intensely, eyes going back and forth like they’re watching a tennis match. A feeling of dread turns his stomach into a yawning chasm so abruptly that he reels from the shift and goes stockstill, swallowing roughly around the lump in his throat. He hasn’t fought in years, hasn’t even attempted to. Not since . . . Shoto gives a sharp shake of his head. He won’t think about it. He won’t. But if they want to fight, as much as it makes him nauseous, he’ll do something about that. If it’ll make them happy, then Shoto has to find somewhere to start. And it won’t be with Enji.

Swallowing again, Shoto clears his throat and speaks when he has Frost and Soba’s attention. “Do you two want to fight? I should have asked much sooner, rather than turning myself away from anything Trainer related, but if fighting is what you two want to do, or even just one of you, then we can do that.” He pauses, and adds gently, firmly, “I’ll make it happen. Just give the word.”

Frost looks from him to the fight and back again. Soba leans against his side and shakes his head so vehemently Shoto worries it might pop off. Shoto gives him a soft look and switches his bowl to his other hand to run his fingertips over his head. Soba’s eyes flutter and he leans harder into him.

Shoto looks to Frost, soft look never wavering. “What about you, Frost? We’ll find somewhere else to start.”

Frost pads over to him, shoves her wet nose into the crook of his neck and then gives a jerk of her head and proceeds to hide behind him, leaning into his back.

“You don’t want to?” Shoto asks for clarification.

Frost rumbles an affirmative and when he says, “Then we won’t,” she relaxes at his back. She hangs her head over his left shoulder. He puts down his bowl completely to scratch the side of her face.

Shoto and his friends sit there long enough to see the sky turn bright blue, finish their food, and watch eight more matches between Blondie and Red. It was certainly interesting to say the least, seeing Blondie get so riled up at losing so frequently and watching Red merely laughing in the face of such rage. Shoto isn’t sure if any of that rage was real and he isn’t very interested in trying to figure it out. What _was_ interesting was taking in the fight with a critical eye, seeing what could be improved where on both ends. Blondie’s friends are too quick to let their temper take control, and Red’s don’t seem to take the fighting at all serious if the dancing Magmar was a clue of any kind. There are other fights that take place, but Shoto winds up forgetting about them because Soba decides to crawl into his lap. At first he assumes his friend just wants affection. And then he hears the bag being rustled in his lap and looks down to find his friend trying to be nosy.

“Shoo,” he says, gently pushing Soba off to the side, who pulls a face at him. “Oh, don’t pout, I’ll show you what they are.” Reaching into the bag, he pulls out two short scarves and holds them out, one in each hand. “It must seem silly t—”

Frost steals one, sets it on his thigh, and promptly rubs her chin all over it. Soba tugs at his arm repeatedly until it’s level with his neck. Frost looks up at him. He feels a low noise rumbling against him. Soba gives him an equally pleading look. There’s a warm sensation filling up his chest and spreading through his limbs. A soft smile tilts his lips before he smiles wide enough that it reaches his eyes.

"Who goes first?” he asks.

Soba hops back into his lap and sits on his crossed calves, back to him. Taking the hint, Shoto twists the one he is currently holding and wraps it around Soba’s neck, tying it off neatly in the back. Soba bounces on his legs and touches the material. Frost shoves her head up beneath his armpit and shoves her nose to the underside of his jaw, so he repeats the step on her. Frost then poses exactly as she had while in Ashido’s company and Soba stands tall, mimicking Yagi with his head held high. Around their necks are crystalline blue scarves decorated with white snowflakes, big and small. Frost settles down on the ground beside him and settles her head in the left side of his lap. Soba wriggles his legs beneath her head and settles firmly on the right. As he watches more people coming and going, he rubs both of their heads and leans back against the tree’s trunk comfortably.

He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, or falling asleep for that matter, but Shoto is woken up for the second time today; it’s just as jarring as the first time. The difference is that it isn’t Momo who wakes him up with a pillow to his face and gentle, urgent words.

First there’s a rapid decrease in temperature and then razor-sharp claws pinch at the sensitive part of his thighs, jolting him to full awareness. Vision fuzzy, he looks around wildly to see what it is that has his friends so riled up, so angry and protective. He registers Frost at his left, up on all fours with her upper half slightly lowered, hackles raised, tails splayed out, and ice crystals forming in her fur. Soba has climbed over his legs and jumped onto her back, claws raised threateningly. Past them, he sees red and orange.

Somehow he’s forgotten the reason he was up here with Frost and Soba until that very reason was staring down at him with a look Shoto hasn’t seen in years, but is still all too familiar with. Fear fingers its way up and down his spine and dread curdles his stomach.

Ignoring his irate, posturing friends, Enji addresses him, “Shoto, get up. You're coming with me.” Enji takes a step toward him, hand raising.

Before he realizes what’s happening, the current image of Frost falls way to something that still haunts his dreams. He sees her on the floor of a gym in the heart of town struggling to rise, struggling to keep going while Shoto couldn’t help but watch from the sidelines with lead in his limbs. Sees her pained expression, sees her determination despite that, while flames flicker and sway around her but don’t touch. Hears the crackle of flame and the smell of it stings his nose and threatens to have him spewing right there from memory alone. Hears Enji yelling at _his friend_ , at Emboar and Infernape to keep going, but . . . Frost can’t continue, can she? Her body is giving out on her, telling her to stop and take a break because enough is enough.

 _Leave while you can before he does something_ turns over and over in his head as he tunes out the screams from memory, and blinks away the sight before him. Smooths his face into an expression that shows nothing, gives nothing away to how he really feels (disgusted, mildly horrified, terrified for his friends. It can’t happen again, it can’t, it can’t. He can’t watch Frost go through that again) and lets his voice come out flat when he says, “No. I’m going home.”

Gathering up his things, Shoto skirts around the old man (ignoring Emboar and Infernape that flank him), and motions for Frost to follow him. Both her and Soba give the trio a withering look before Frost follows, with Soba on his perch.

With Enji no longer in his sight, Shoto can feel the tide receding, nausea easing and the clamp around his chest loosening. And . . . and he almost feels proud of the fact that he’s finally said no (he should have stayed at home and done this). He wonders if it came from the memory of seeing Frost barely able to stay up and stay conscious. Mere seconds later, that pride is squashed.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough,” Enji says, tone running cold with barely leashed anger from being dismissed like that. “Go.”

It’s not the command that makes him turn around. It’s the change in the air behind him, heating up to crush Frost’s chill. When he turns around, he zeroes in on the moving Emboar and Infernape that lunge for his friends; Infernape grabs Soba and wraps his arms around Soba’s arms, keeping them locked against his sides. Emboar goes after Frost, who deftly moves off to the side and narrowly avoids a fire attack.

“No!” Shoto snarls, and goes to sweep his right hand forward, feels ice crystals form on his hand and feels it form solidly before his foot.

Enji sets a hand on his chest, preventing him from moving further. Automatically, he freezes and makes a shaky little noise. Frost must hear it, because instead of focusing on dodging a barrage of attacks, her head turns in his direction. Emboar pins her to the ground, flames soaring high.

“Emboar, Emboar!” Emboar gloats. The grin he sports looks too much like Enji’s. The glint in Emboar’s eyes, directed at Frost, causes Shoto to lurch forward because he doesn’t want that look aimed at his friend again, _stop looking at her like that_. It shouldn’t happen again. Infernape shifts on his feet nervously and stays quiet.

Heat seeps into Shoto’s chest from the hand there and Enji doesn’t quite push him back, though it’s a close thing. “You will come train with me once more, Shoto, to rule by my side. I will turn you into someone fit to rule a gym. Someone worthy of the title.”

Shoto’s head swims with the roar of his blood. Glaring up at Enji, he spits, “Let them go.”

Enji’s brows raise, and he throws a backwards glance at them. Frost is wriggling on the ground. Soba is futilely trying to bite at Infernape’s arms. Shoto sees the moment Enji knows he has him from the cruel grin parting his lips. Like he’s having something reconfirmed. “Ah. I went about this the wrong way, didn’t I?” Moving around to stand behind him, Enji sets his hands heavily on Shoto’s shoulders, squeezing with more force than is called for. “I’ll make a deal with you, Shoto. Train with me, and they’ll be left alone.”

 _But for how long_ , he questions.

Looking to his friends, Shoto grinds his teeth. He doesn’t want to go with his father, doesn’t want to be forced to endure rough blows to his midsection, open-handed smacks that send him reeling back, burns that make it painful to wear clothes, bruises that ache with the slightest shift of muscles or soft pressure is enough to aggravate them. But . . .

“You’ll leave them out of this?” Shoto grits out, teeth clenched so hard he hears them creak from the strain.

“It is only you who will be training,” Enji says. It sounds like it should be a promise. From anyone else, it might have been. From anyone else, it might have even sounded reassuring to hear. Coming from Enji, it sounds like the bars of a prison slamming shut.

Shoto doesn’t believe him for one second, but he eases back. He hates how easy it is to submit to his father, how easy it is for him to bended to his will. “When do we start?”

Enji calls off his Pokémon. Frost gets up this time from her encounter with Emboar; she doesn’t need to be treated in the infirmary, not to wake for days. Infernape drops Soba, who scrambles over to Frost and swipes at Emboar when it lumbers toward Enji. Rushing over, Shoto checks them for injuries.

Frost shoves her head into Shoto’s stomach and rumbles. Soba sticks his claws into Shoto’s shirt and looks up at him with thinly-veiled fear. “I know,” he tells them softly, fighting the burn at the back of his throat and the pressure behind his eyes.

This time when he pushes to his feet, the fear is buried even deeper and he thinks of a place far away. A place where his mother might be.

He thinks of a place that is full of snow all the time, where the world always looks magical coated in white. He sees his mother enjoying life and nature with her own friends who love her as much as she loves them. Who have endured pain on her behalf at the hands of Emboar. Of Infernape. Of Incineroar. Of Blaziken. And his mother, who suffered at the hands of a man who should have loved and cherished her instead of using her the way he wanted.

Letting his hand fall down to rest atop Frost’s head, he lets her chill soothe his nerves. Soba scales him and perches on his back again, glaring all the while at Infernape.

Maybe he finally did something right. By agreeing, only Shoto will suffer this time. This means that his friends will be physically safe. Glancing over, he sees the steely look return to Frost’s eyes; the same one she would wear when she fought on his behalf. He sees Soba out of the corner of his eye sporting an identical look.

Staring at the back of a man that has caused more harm than good, Shoto hardens his resolve. He’ll go with the old bastard this one time, to let him think that he’s won, but that won’t be the case this time. This time, before any more damage can be done, they’re leaving. With or without Momo and Jirou because he can’t keep doing this. Can’t keep being afraid of whatever might be lurking around the corner. New challenges he’ll have to do to appease Enji’s endless search for power.

Looking at Enji’s back, Shoto swears this is the last time he will be taken advantage of.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've stayed until the end, I also thank you for reading through and I hope to see your review(s) (though they aren't necessary)! 
> 
> Irrelevant(ish), but mobile tagging sucks and that means I can't tag the way I want to.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've stayed until the end, thank you for reading and I hope to see your reviews (though they're not necessary)! They fuel me.
> 
> Irrelevant(ish), but mobile tagging sucks, and that means I can't tag the way I want to.


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